


The Ties That Bind

by letsbreereal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Brock Rumlow, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Awesome Darcy Lewis, BAMF Darcy Lewis, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knotting, Light BDSM, Moral Ambiguity, NOT Triple Agent!Brock Rumlow, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Darcy Lewis, READ FIRST CHAPTER FOR IMPORTANT DISCLAIMERS, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, but also NOT dark!Brock Rumlow, taserbones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsbreereal/pseuds/letsbreereal
Summary: The world's a complicated, uncertain place, where miracles and tragedies are each born from happenstance just as often as from intention. Sometimes kindness can be a cruelty, sometimes poison masquerades as elixir, and sometimes a spade really isjusta spade. Sometimes it's impossible to tell which is which until it's too late.Darcy doesn't know what'srightandwrong- notreally! - and she doesn't know how to separate her thoughts and opinions from her own lived experiences. All she knows is that shelikesBrock, that whether he's good for her or not, whether he's helping her or just looking out for himself, being around him feelsrightin a way nothing else ever has.[A/B/O Taserbones fic dipped in moral ambiguity and served with a generous helping of explicit smut.]
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 23
Kudos: 70





	1. [story notes & disclaimers]

** AUTHOR'S NOTES & DISCLAIMERS **   
_[actual story starts next chapter!]_

Apologies in advance, friends! I swear I'm not usually this big of a talker outside of comment replies or the occasional (usually brief) author's note, and I usually _hate_ to artificially pad a word count, but this story is different, and I couldn't fit everything I thought I needed to say in an author's note.

As much as I personally _adore_ stories surprise twists and ambiguity that keeps you guessing, I also very strongly believe in informed consent. This fic has some elements that some readers will not enjoy. I want to be up front about what I can, without spoiling too much. By all means, if you are good with anything and everything and do not want any kind of disclaimers, feel free to skip now to the next chapter, which is the first real entry of the story.

For most people, though, I recommend you take a moment to briefly consider the following seven things I think you should know before you agree to embark on this journey with me:

1\. Jane is **not** the best friend in the world in this fic, but this is also not a Jane-bashing fic or anything like that.

> There’s no petty other woman drama with them or anything, and I don’t characterize Jane as a bitch just to make her a bitch or anything. Strong female friendships are important, and I don’t like seeing women tearing each other down for no reason. I generally try to avoid that in any story I write. Again: this isn't a Jane-bashing fic. But for this story in particular, Jane and Darcy just aren’t perfect platonic lifemates who would die for each other; there’s tension between them at times, they make some insensitive comments toward each other here and now, and, at different points, they grow apart just as easily as they grow together. I leaned on some small details from their relationship in the Thor movies, but the Jane and Darcy in this story shouldn’t be directly compared to the Jane and Darcy from the movies. They’re different in some important ways, and their relationship is similarly different.

2\. This is probably about as consensual as you’re going to see in an A/B/O fic, at least for the primary relationship, but it's still an A/B/O fic.

> The sexual interactions between Darcy and Brock are meant to be consensual, and are meant to be read as consensual. They are not perfect, and their _relationship_ is _certainly_ not perfect. Brock, in particular, is not a perfectly good, selfless guy. As of right now (I do not have everything planned or written out, yet, so this could change and I will update this warning as needed!), there is really only one truly dubious consent or potentially somewhat nonconsensual scene that might make its way into the story (and I say _might_ because it very well might get cut altogether and never make it into the story). Importantly, this scene is NOT sexual, but instead the questionable or nonconsensual aspect has to do with power dynamics and bonding in A/B/O relationships, but, I repeat, that scene is _not_ a dubcon or noncon sex/rape scene. There will not be _any_ scenes where Darcy or Brock in any way force or coerce the other into a sexual scenario the other is not fully on board with. (There may or may not be scenes the two engage in consensual nonconsent type play, but this is something both individuals are fully on board with and have clear, well-defined ways to stop at any moment should they change their mind.) 
> 
> Now, this _is_ still an A/B/O fic, so could there be _some_ potential dubcon related to the nature of heat or rut cycles? _Maaaaybe_ , if you _squint_. Alphas and omegas in this fic do not lose their mind completely when in the middle of a rut or a heat. Their hormones give them significantly higher libidos at those times, yes, and they crave sex, certainly, but, in this world, it's not an _uncontrollable_ urge by any means. Again, I want to stress that Darcy and Brock’s _physical_ relationship is meant to be read as consensual. Neither one of them ever in any way tries to use the others' hormones as a way to coerce the other into sexual contact that would not have been otherwise welcomed. Consent is pretty clearly given in many scenes, and the absence of any explicit mention of it in others is not meant to imply its absence, but is instead more meant to show a natural comfort level that the two develop with each other.
> 
> If certain scenes come across to you as a reader as noncon or significantly dubcon, I want you to please, _please_ tell me! I may either edit the scene to make sure it is reflecting what I intended for it to reflect, or, if needed, I will change and update this disclaimer and the tags.

3\. Darcy and Brock’s relationship is **not** a perfectly healthy one, but this is **not** a dark!fic.

> There are aspects of their relationship that are very healthy. There are also questionable aspects – some age/power/knowledge discrepancies that can be problematic when read in certain lights. And there are also _unhealthy_ elements to their relationship, too. Again: Brock is _not_ a selfless guy. He’s not a triple agent for Fury/SHIELD. BUT!: Brock also isn’t an _evil_ guy – at least not purely so. This is not a HYDRA Trash Party. This is not dark!Brock. This is complicated, imperfect, manipulative but also _attentive_ Brock.
> 
> I am not trying to make light of any bad qualities he or any of the other characters have, and I'm not trying to apologize for or justify or _romanticize_ any bad decisions he or other characters make. That said, this story also isn't going to preach at you about (very important!) social justice issues. I'm just going to lay everything out there with this one, but Darcy and Brock are going to present certain scenes or opinions from their own perspectives. Darcy will tell you at some point that everything is perfectly fine, that the relationship is perfect and unproblematic. This is not meant to be taken as truth, or as my personal opinion. You will likely disagree with Darcy and with Brock when they narrate certain things; that's great, and I expect you to! Again, my goal is not to romanticize anything you might find problematic or unhealthy, just to present the story to you as the characters see it at the time (or, as much as the characters are willing to show you at any given time).

4\. I am not promising a happy ending and I am not promising Brock Rumlow!Redemption, but I am also not warning you that neither is possible.

> Nothing is off the table, as I genuinely don’t know how this story is going to end, yet. I’m not making any promises at all. If you’re the kind of person who needs to know going into a fic if you’ll have a happy ending or a tragedy waiting for you at the end… you’re going to want to look elsewhere, I’m sorry. As I continue writing this, I obviously will eventually figure out what the ending is going to be, but I do not intend to come back and change this to make new readers any promise. It’ll be better to not know with this one, I think – that’s a part of the ride, here. Hopefully you’re on board for that sort of thing, but if that’s not something you enjoy, I understand and will not be offended if you sit this fic out!

5\. This is my first foray into A/B/O.

> I’m playing with certain elements I’ve enjoyed from other stories and am putting my own spin on other elements. I might make a mistake with the rules of the world I created, or I might say something that is completely confusing to you. By all means, call me out on it, or drop a comment and ask, if you have a question about the world or about how things work in this specific omegaverse! I’ll happily answer (or, if it’s something that I know will be a spoiler, I’ll let you know that instead).

6\. There are some BDSM elements to Brock and Darcy's relationship.

> I tagged this as "Light BDSM" because, in my mind, there's nothing super extreme about anything these two engage in, but obviously reasonable minds can differ on what counts as "light" and "extreme". The two get up to different things at different points, and I've only written two of the smutty scenes at this point, so I'm not going to go through and tag for each and every element that might've been tagged had the scene been a one-shot.
> 
> For those who care: Brock tends to be in the Dominant role and Darcy in the submissive, but this is not set in stone. Throughout the fic, the two typically display what I'd consider fairly good BDSM etiquette, but there may be times when this is _not_ true. Neither Brock nor Darcy are particularly good at sitting down and chatting or negotiating in advance, but they're attentive of the other's needs, and there is clear effort to make sure both parties are comfortable with anything they do together. 
> 
> There will be some consensual non-consent type play between the two, but I'm not yet sure how explicit this will be (this may be a full-blown smut scene, it may be fade-to-black, or it may just be hinted at). The _consent_ part of this play, however, will be _very_ explicit. That said, if you feel like there's a part of their play that is particularly bad etiquette or is reading as less than truly consensual, I want to know! Please don't hesitate to leave me a comment pointing out what's rubbing you the wrong way, and I'll make any appropriate changes! 

7\. Lastly: This will likely have fairly slow updates.

> As some of you may know, I’m juggling a couple of ongoing Taserbones fics right now, so my updating can be a bit sporadic. This story in particular is definitely _not_ going to be updated on any set schedule. I will do my best to update this in *chunks*, though, keeping certain time periods or complete scenes together as much as possible. I’m not planning to leave you hanging on any major cliffhangers, not for any significant amount of time. There are a couple multi-chapter scenes, or time windows in their relationship that just have to be broken into multiple chapters, and for those situations, I’ll let you know with a [x/y] in the title of the chapter. I’ll do my absolute best to post those two- or thee- part entries fairly back to back. But: the cost of this is that there will likely be longer delays between one major time jump/major scene and the next one. I could try to stick to a more consistent schedule and space these out… but I’d rather not leave you hanging off large cliffs if I can avoid it. …I also don’t want pitchforks coming after me if there’s a chapter break between a lead-up and a sex scene.

If none of that scares you off, then I hope you'll stick with me, buckle up, and enjoy the ride! As always, comments, questions, critiques, and criticisms are all very much welcomed and appreciated!


	2. prologue

Darcy Lewis isn’t sure at what point, exactly, her life went wrong, but as she stands there, staring down the barrel of a gun that’s pointed directly at Captain America’s face, she figures it must have happened somewhere along the way without her noticing it.

One doesn’t just go around and consider shooting a national treasure and Certified Good Guy™ otherwise, right?

But there she is, one steady press of a finger away from shooting Steve Rogers at point-blank range. The same Steve Rogers she’d spent hours cozied up next to on the couch as she tried to get him caught up on as many essential pop culture staples as possible. The same Steve Rogers she’d baked for, had playfully bickered with, had worried over when he was on a mission… Her _friend_.

“Don’t make me shoot you,” she all but begs him as she stands there, ignoring the ache in her arms and remaining focused on keeping her grip on the pistol relaxed but ready.

There’s a rumble of approval from behind her – a sound that irritates her just as much as it involuntarily soothes her – as a hand curls around her waist, palm pressing into the side of her stomach. The touch is affectionate – _appreciative_ , even – but it’s also taunting… _possessive_. She can instinctively translate the subtleties of these little gestures of his, now. Has been able to for a while, really.

It’s his fault they’re in this mess – the stupid fucking _HYDRA_ asshole.

It’s _completely_ his fault.

He’s a bad influence – she _knows_ it, feels it deeply in her bones, knows her life never would’ve ended up this completely and utterly _screwed_ if she’d never met him… but she _also_ knows she’d do anything for him, knows she’d shoot this friend of hers for him.

Not just because he’s her mate, but because he’s her _everything_.

She has to fight the urge to relax back into him when she feels his chest press against her back, remains focused on her aim even as she feels him touch his lips to her neck then rest his chin on her shoulder. His other hand strokes down the front of her hip, caresses her thigh. It’s an action that puts him in a better position to quickly retrieve her secondary weapon from its holster, she knows, but she can tell that’s not why he’s doing it, can tell it’s the _optics_ and not the tactical advantage that motivates him. He wants to make it clear how completely at ease he is, how confident he is that he’s safely out of the Avengers’ reach – so confident that he’s standing there unarmed, feeling up his mate in plain view.

“Yeah, Cap,” he drawls, the smirk on his lips audible in his tone. “Don’t make the sweet omega shoot you.”

The response from the alpha in front of her is automatic and undoubtedly instinctual. He growls, takes a step closer, starts to issue some kind of threat of his own. “ _Rumlow_ —!“

“ _Back up_!” Darcy interrupts, her own voice just as authoritative as those of the men surrounding her. “I mean it, Steve. Back the fuck up, right now!”

He comes up short, halts his approach, but doesn’t immediately retreat. He _hesitates_. She can see the indecision in his eyes, can see him sizing her up, examining her with that probing gaze of his. He tries again to convince her: “He’s _using_ _you_ , Darcy.”

“Literally,” Sam Wilson chimes in from where he stands a few feet diagonally behind the Captain, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He uncrosses one arm, extends it in a gesture in her direction, continues, dryly: “Right now. As a human shield.”

She ignores the Falcon entirely, keeps her attention squarely focused on the larger threat. “I won’t tell you again, Rogers.”

The blond man considers her for another long, long moment, then straightens, squares his shoulders. “Put the gun down, Darcy. You’re not going to shoot me.”

It’s an _order_ , and the omega in her feels it hit her, feels it slap into her like a wave on a rocky coast, feels it break against her and wash over her, dispersing in multiple directions as it goes. It holds no power over her – wouldn’t have before, either, for that matter, but _certainly_ doesn’t now that she’s officially bonded to someone else.

Outrage flares within her, but it’s the alpha behind her who responds, his growl low and filled with lethal promise. There’s an instinctive part of her that yearns to bask in the warmth of that particular growl, a part of her that thrills at the sheer _power_ that comes with having an alpha ready to step in and fight not over but _for_ her, but she knows that now is not the time for that. With a twist of her leg, she raps her heel against the inside of her mate’s foot once in warning. His growl, she knows, is an involuntary reaction to witnessing another alpha attempting to _order_ _his omega_ around, but, understandable and even admirable as it might be, it’s doing absolutely nothing to help diffuse the current situation they’ve found themselves in.

Captain America wholly ignores the threats from the both of them and strides forward confidently, angling his body in a way that telegraphs how he’s planning to just stroll right around Darcy, so she shifts just slightly, just enough to keep her aim locked on him and her body between the two teammates-turned-enemies. Her mate at her back doesn’t miss a beat, steps fluidly with her to the side in perfect time with her movement.

Wanda speaks up before Darcy has the opportunity, shouting out a quick warning: “ _Steve_ —!“ It’s all she says. There’s more to the warning, of course, but not more that needs to actually be said _aloud_. The rest can be implied: _she will do it_ or _it’s not a bluff_ or _you need to actually stop your approach right the fuck where you are._

He stops where he is, cuts a glance in the young enhanced’s direction, then turns back to her. Surprise flashes across Steve’s face, followed quickly by deep and genuine hurt. The look he sends Darcy’s way makes it clear he’s no longer sure he even knows her, can’t understand how she’d _actually_ be willing to pull the trigger on him.

It hurts – those devastated puppy dog eyes of his hit her squarely in the heart – but more than that, it also _irritates_. She’s more than a little bit offended he apparently thinks she’s incapable of shooting him, of following through on a threat, even when it’s her mate’s life that hangs in the balance. She’s not some weak little wallflower of an omega, and she thought she’d proven that already, time and time again.

The hand on her stomach shifts, flexes and adds a bit of pressure, then relaxes again. It’s a gesture of support, a _thank you_ blurred into an _I never doubted you_.

And she’s not particularly thrilled with the asshole behind her at the moment, either, but there’s one thing he’s certainly got going for him, at least: In all the years their lives have overlapped – when they met as strangers, bumped into each other as acquaintances, became coworkers, _lovers_ … – in all those years, he’s _never_ _once_ underestimated her because of her designation. If anything, he’s the whole reason she’s learned to be _proud_ of being an omega, to feel powerful not _in spite of_ being one, but _because of_ and _in addition to_.

Brock Rumlow has manipulated her for his own benefit, yes – she’s not naive enough to believe otherwise – but he’s also strengthened her, has supported her and built her up, for no one’s benefit but her own.

For that, she owes him everything.


	3. it feels like the first time [1/2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author throws in some unsubtle world-building, then: an alpha and an omega walk into a bar...

Darcy Lewis presents as an omega just after her sixteenth birthday, something that comes as a surprise to her, to her parents, _and_ to the entire small town of Lowestoft, Virginia. It’s not a _problem,_ of course – it’s actually a _blessing,_ everyone keeps telling her – but it’s definitely a bit of a shock.

See, omegas are _rare_ , and there hasn’t been an omega born in Lowestoft in, well, at least a generation. Maybe two? No: _one_ , because Fran Thompson’s niece is an omega, though the girl moved out of town with her parents _years_ before she ever presented.

…It’s a small town. Truthfully, _anyone_ in Lowestoft turning out to be an omega would’ve been enough to keep the gossip mills running for a good amount of time, but the fact that it’s _Darcy_? Oh, that’s fodder for _at least_ a year or two! Omegas are supposed to be sweet, nurturing, and maybe not completely _docile_ but certainly _non-combative_ and generally biddable. But Darcy? Darcy is not that. She’s loud, incredibly stubborn, and of the local school-aged kids, she’s probably the one _least_ likely to jump up and do what she’s told just because an adult’s the one speaking. She’ll usually _end up_ doing what she’s asked, sure, as long as it’s reasonable, but she won’t do it blindly and she certainly won’t do it without asking a question or two first. _Most small town kids have better manners, but Darcy always wants to know why,_ one of her elementary school report cards had actually said.

Story of her life.

So yeah, Darcy’s presentation comes as a surprise to her and to everyone who’s ever met her, but it’s not an entirely unwelcome one. She always assumed she’d be a beta like the vast majority of people are, but it’s not like she had her heart set on it or anything. Everyone always talks about how special and amazing omegas are, so maybe it _is_ a blessing…? At minimum, it comes with some decent perks: she gets yelled at less, for starters, and her guidance counselor at school tells her all about the college scholarships available to her as an omega.

At sixteen, Darcy doesn’t much mind being an omega.

At eighteen, she’s _exceptionally_ tired of being an omega _in a small town,_ but she’s certain it’ll be better once she’s at Culver; Willowdale is an actual _city_ , and more importantly, it’s not full of people who have known her since she was literally running around in diapers.

By the time she’s twenty-one, however, Darcy has decided that she _hates_ being an omega. She absolutely _despises_ it.

It’s not because of the institutionalized discrimination. That’s a thing, of course, but it’s not the cause of her hatred. Modern society might still have quite a ways to go before true equality is achieved, but any rational person has to admit that there are pros and cons to every designation these days. Sure, there are some old-fashioned idiots out there who talk a big game about how omegas should be bonded and barefoot and pregnant at all times. (Or, at least, the female ones should be. Those old-fashioned idiots never quite seemed to have any idea what the few-and-far-between male omegas should be doing with their lives...) But that’s beside the point! Some people are idiots, yes. This isn’t new.

The _majority_ of people support omega rights, at least in theory, and these days the law has a number of protections in place for omegas. There are remedies for discrimination. …That’s not to say one still doesn’t occasionally run into an employer or business owner who doesn’t seem to _care_ that discrimination is illegal, but still. It _is_ illegal. And while it can be dangerous for an unbonded omega to be out wandering the streets at night alone, the streets at night aren’t particularly safe for _any_ woman.

The constant microaggressions are annoying, but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Darcy can handle the staring and she can handle the double- triple- and quadruple-checking of her forms whenever she has to deal with doctor’s offices or government paperwork. She just rolls her eyes whenever someone offers to carry extra shit for her – like, not crazy heavy things that she totally would love to get some help with, but like _a single fucking grocery bag_ , as if she isn’t capable of managing _that_ on her own! …Now, the constant assumption that a female omega just _has_ _to_ end up in a relationship with a male alpha _really_ drives her up a wall, and she is more than happy to share a piece of her mind with any asshole who tries to suggest that _that_ is why her most promising chance at a relationship so far (which happened to be with a beta) had imploded spectacularly.

 _No_. Darcy had fucked that up all on her own, thank you very much. No help from any of that predestined designation bullshit necessary.

But, regardless, those things are _annoying_ , and annoying enough to make her want to _hide_ what she is most of the time, but not annoying enough to make her _hate_ being an omega.

No. The reason she _hates_ being an omega – absolutely _despises_ it – is because of the _heats_.

And not even like the really-crazy-high-libido part. Or the sweating-and-cramping-if-you-don’t-get-yourself-off part. …Or even the could-probably-get-pregnant-in-a-heartbeat part, either. All of those things can be dealt with; they made contraceptives and toys with knots for a reason, after all. And being horny, on its own? That’s fun.

What _isn’t_ fun is the damn finicky instincts she has to deal with. No one ever talks about that part of it, but insanely horny as an omega in heat is, they are _not_ indiscriminately attracted to any and every person that walks by. They’re not even indiscriminately attracted to any and every _alpha_. Even in the deepest throws of a heat, some part of an omega’s hindbrain is always tuned in to clues from pheromones or behavioral indicators that might signal a good or a bad potential mate. It’s supposed to be a good thing from an evolutionary perspective. The problem is, Darcy’s hindbrain is _super fucking tuned in to any and all potential red flags_.

Because you know what’s worse than being incredibly, almost unbearably, _constantly_ turned on for days at a time? Being incredibly, unbearably, constantly turned on and genuinely wanting to actually _act_ on it, but being _constantly_ nagged by some deep, instinctual feeling that something about whatever partner you’re considering is _not right_!

It’s partially her own damn fault for not being in a committed or at least familiar relationship _before_ going into a heat, really. Darcy’s actually quite confident that if she only just had a main squeeze hanging around _before_ she feels herself falling into a heat, then the whole let’s-lock-ourselves-in-a-room-for-a-week-and-go-at-it-like-rabbits thing might actually be pretty fun. While many omegas complain about their cycles more than anything, that’s not true for everyone. It’s a personal thing. Everyone’s different. Plenty of bonded omegas seem to enjoy spending heats with their mates, after all, and Darcy knows there are unbonded omegas, too, who enjoy partnering up for them. Darcy’s pretty sure she’d fall into that last category, if only she could get her instincts on board with the plan.

The problem is, Darcy’s dating life has been… not great. Her small town high school hadn’t had any guys she was really interested in even a little bit, and college just wasn’t panning out as expected. She’s pretty focused on her schoolwork, and maybe she doesn’t spend _quite_ as much time or energy looking for a relationship as she _could_ … but her experience with the guys at her school has been disheartening. She goes on dates now and then, but they never really _click_. Sometimes it’s normal things, like there just not being good chemistry or they both realize they’re looking for different things. Other times, her designation seems to be an issue; a lot of the betas seem weirdly concerned she’s cheating on them or just won’t stay with them if an alpha swoops in, and the alphas she dates all seem to either think she’s not acting the way an omega is supposed to, or they immediately declare their love for her and propose bonding… _before they’ve even had sex!_

It just… hasn’t worked out.

So Darcy’s left to try and seek out short-term arrangements or hookups for her heats, because she never manages to have any kind of even halfway serious relationship when she needs one. And, really, it shouldn’t be _that_ hard for her to find someone she wants to bang at a time when she really couldn’t be _more_ down to be fucked… but for whatever reason, Darcy In Heat just _cannot_ be satisfied with the options available to her.

Her hindbrain always finds _something_ to object to.

For many potential candidates, designation is an immediate issue. Darcy is sure – absolutely fucking _sure!_ – that she could be more than satisfied working through a heat with a beta partner (or, hell, even another omega partner!) and a good knotting dildo, if she only had one of those in advance. …The partner, that is; she has more than one good knotting dildo, thank you very much! But, when she goes into a heat _without_ a partner already picked out, she can’t help but turn up her nose at any non-alpha who approaches her. They just can’t keep her attention. She feels restless. Her eyes wander. …She’s not proud of it, okay? So long as she’s looking for a temporary, purely sexual relationship, she figures it might as well be with an alpha.

Unfortunately, even the _alphas_ she tends to run into just feel _wrong_! There’s something about their scent, usually – something that speaks to some deeply primitive, completely unconscious sense that screams at her that they’re incompatible. There’ve been studies done on pheromones and how individuals with more diverse immune systems and genetics tend to have pheromones that better appeal to one another, or something like that. It’s some kind of evolutionary compatibility meter for producing more genetically diverse and therefore hopefully healthier offspring. Even betas, with their weaker sense of smell, aren’t immune from this. Alphas and omegas tend to notice this more consciously, though, and for whatever reason, it seems like women tend to be pickier than men about it.

Darcy doesn’t know how it works. All she knows is that it’s _annoying._

She _has_ met alphas that don’t immediately smell _wrong_ , of course. She’s met plenty, though for whatever reason her timing tends to be absolute shit and she seems to run into less of them when she’s actually coming into heat… Or is that not a coincidence? If her sense of smell generally is heightened in the days leading up to and during her heat, is it possible that whole instinctive-genetic-compatibility-meter of hers is somehow more sensitive during the time when she’s exceptionally fertile? That’s something someone should look into.

But regardless: she’s met alphas who still smell good to her, even when she’s in heat. There’s just always… _something_. They’re still somehow _wrong_. Sometimes they’re already mated – that’s something that also makes them smell pretty repulsive, actually, but it’s a different smell, one that she can differentiate from the general-compatibility scent.

Other times the alphas _act_ wrong.

Sometimes they fumble over themselves, clearly surprised to pick up on the scent of an unbonded omega nearing heat and clearly just as uncertain as to what they should do with that surprising information. It’s understandable, really, what with omegas being so rare to begin with, and with widespread use of suppressants making heats outside of committed relationships rarer still… and it’s even _more_ understandable when one considers how young Darcy is and how equally young the majority of alphas she finds in her social circle are; they probably _haven’t_ really figured out what to do with a horny and receptive omega. How could anyone expect one of her high school or college classmates to know what they’re doing?

It’s judgmental of Darcy to hold their inexperience against them. She _knows_ it is… but judge them she does! And she tries to ignore it – really, truthfully, she _tries_! – but there’s something about the awkwardness or the hesitation that her hindbrain sees and immediately rejects as _not suitable for mating_.

 _Ugh_. Like she’s even _looking_ for a mate! Really, she just wants someone to have a good time with, but _no_. No, no. Her hindbrain doesn’t care to see the difference, not when her hormones are in overdrive.

The compatible alphas who seem more sure of themselves last longer. Darcy gets hopeful. But then, inevitably, _something_ happens. Maybe there’s something that sets off alarm bells in the rational part of her brain (like, the serious kind of alarm bells, the ones even Deeply Horny And Instinctual Darcy can’t ignore, like the _this-dude-might-be-a-serial-killer_ type alarm bells) and then she gets spooked, because that’s a perfectly acceptable, very normal reaction to have when someone makes you wonder if they secretly want to kill you and wear your skin.

More commonly, though, the red flags Darcy’s brain picks up on aren’t actually real, _objective_ red flags that make her worry about her safety. More commonly, the alpha just goes all _sweet_ and _gentle_ and does the whole _treating-you-like-the-special-little-princess-you-are_ thing. And maybe there’s something wrong with her, because Darcy is pretty sure that that sort of thing is supposed to be _soothing_ and _supportive_ and, you know, _attractive_ , but all she can feel in those moments is _suffocated_ and _itchy_ and _wrong_.

She doesn’t want to be _nurtured_ and _cared for_ and _cuddled_! …Or maybe she _does_ , but just not _yet_? Possibly? She doesn’t know! Hormones are confusing, all right? All she knows is that she wants to be _manhandled_ and _overpowered_ and _pinned down_. But, you know, by an attractive alpha who smells compatible, is unmated, knows what he’s doing, and isn’t _creepy_.

Really, is that too much to ask?

And _yeah_ , okay, she knows that it probably is. She resents that about herself – how insufferably _picky_ she is, especially in heat.

But there’s nothing she can _do_ about it! She’s tried just ignoring her instincts, tried doing that whole meditative _push that shit from your mind and clear your thoughts_ thing, but it just doesn’t work! _Nothing_ she’s tried works. And at first she hadn’t been too concerned about that, because she was still young and her high school was small and plenty of her friends were still virgins, too, and if the timing or the person just wasn’t right, then it wasn’t right. No big deal. But she’s in _college_ , now, and it _still_ doesn’t feel right, and this is starting to seem like a much bigger issue than just a _wait for the moment_ kind of thing because _she actually wants to have sex but she just cannot for the life of her find the right person_!

So _that’s_ why Darcy Lewis hates being an omega. Because going through a heat but being _picky as fuck_ and therefore being the sole cause of her own intense sexual frustration is _The Actual Worst_. It makes her hate herself and her own ridiculous standards just a little bit more every time.

Being a beta would be _much_ easier, she knows. Getting regular-people-horny and just being able to take her pick of any available man that catches her eye sounds nice.

And okay, _yeah_ , she knows she’d probably still be picky as a beta, too. But not _insufferably_ so! She’s sure of it. It’s the omega thing that’s the primary issue, here. …But, like it or not, Darcy _is_ an omega, and that’s not something that’s ever going to change. She has to learn to deal with it, has to figure out how to work around her overly sensitive instincts, because _she cannot live like this forever_!

And that overdramatic thought is probably courtesy of those same instincts and hormones she despises so very much, because Darcy has only _just_ gotten out of another heat she’s had to spend alone, so she’s still feeling the leftover frustration from being exceptionally down to fuck but not being able to find a suitable partner. But still, it’s not _all_ post-heat hormones talking. She’s _twenty-one_ , and she’s a hot-blooded woman. _It’s time_.

She figures maybe she just needs a _really good fuck_ – outside of a heat cycle – to get her head wrapped around just what, exactly, it is that she wants. Then maybe once she experiences it, she’ll know how to tell that to the next guy she wants to pair up with for a heat, and then all of these picky-instinct issues can finally be behind her. It’s worth a shot, at least, right?

…That’s how Darcy ends up on her own at a bar in downtown D.C. (Willowdale may be bigger than Lowestoft, but Darcy doesn’t know how awkward this one night stand thing might be, so she’d really rather not risk the chance of running into anyone who might recognize her. Plus, she figures bigger city means larger nightlife scene, which means more potential men out looking for a good time to choose from.) She’s determined to find somebody, and she starts the night off a bit nervous, but mostly hopeful and optimistic.

It does not go well.

There’s apparently something about _single, unbonded omega alone at a bar and not in heat_ that seems to send out some kind of bat signal for those looking for committed relationships, because she’s at the bar for no more than five minutes before she’s already had two complete strangers come up to her and offer mating proposals. They each seem to take her polite but firm “ _No thank you!_ ” of a rejection well, at least, even if the entire interaction leaves her baffled and somewhat off-balance.

It’s when she’s watching the second man walk away that she first realizes she’s being watched. And Darcy has drawn stares everywhere she goes since she first presented, so after five years, she’s fairly used to it… but people are usually at least _somewhat_ subtle about it. They look away when they’re caught, try to steal glances when they think she won’t notice, pretend they’re just stretching or looking at something else nearby… _something_! When she looks up this time, though, the dark-haired man she locks gazes with doesn’t immediately look away, doesn’t look the least bit ashamed to be caught… but he _also_ doesn’t immediately smile at her, give a wave, do _any_ of the things she would interpret as an invitation to approach.

He just looks at her, holds her gaze for a long moment, and then quirks his lips into an amused little half-smile and turns away, goes back to talking to his friends or coworkers or whatever. She takes the opportunity to look the small group over, notes that all six men look unusually in shape and are all similarly dressed in all-black tactical outfits that seem to suggest a career in law enforcement, military, or security. None of the others are looking her way.

Her attention flits back to the one who’d caught her gaze. He’s leaning up against the bar, one elbow propping himself up while his free hand holds a half-full glass of dark beer to his side. And he’s attractive, she recognizes easily, eyes drawn to his muscular biceps and the dark stubble that lines his chiseled jaw. It occurs to her that he’s the exact opposite of the guys she’s always running into on campus, and maybe therefore exactly what she’s looking for. He’s too old for her, though, her mind immediately supplies. Her roommate would have _Opinions_ , if the conservative little blonde were here with her. But, then again… Darcy’s not looking for long-term material; she’s looking for someone who can help her scratch this unreachable itch of hers, who can show her a good time, then let her get on with her merry day.

 _Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma’am._ …Sir? Whatever.

This guy looks like he could fit the bill – he _looks_ like an _unrepentant womanizer_ , which she figures is sort of the point – but he’s also not alone, and the way he neither sent her an inviting signal nor got up to make his own approach tells her he’s probably not interested, anyway.

Darcy makes herself look away, tries to get back to the task at hand. The problem is, she keeps striking out with everyone she talks to, and no matter what she does, she keeps noticing Half Smile Guy all the way across the room.

She gets herself a drink and does a sweep of the bar, tries to figure out her options, tries to see if anyone else is looking at her and _is_ doing the clear-invitation-or-approach thing, but her gaze keeps snagging on him as he continues talking with his friends. She has a pleasant chat with a woman sitting next to her, who eventually asks if she knows where the bathroom is, and when she looks around to point it out, she finds her attention drawn to him _again_.

She gets proposed to _for a_ _third time_ , and when she looks up, Mystery Man is watching her again, half-smile back in place. He shakes his head when she catches him, this time, says something to one of the guys he’s with, and then turns back to his group without doing The Staredown 2.0™. She feels his gaze when she gets tired of doing the sit-and-smile-while-trying-to-look-approachable-and-open-for-business thing, when she tries to approach a few different guys herself, only to find that one thing or another just… _doesn’t feel right_.

She sees his shoulders shaking with amusement when a drunk alpha interrupts the conversation she’s having with a perfectly nice beta in order to say something stupid about how she shouldn’t be wasting her time with _betas_. She gives the asshole a piece of her mind, snaps back even harder when the guy then tries to tell her that she’s being _too emotional_ , that she needs to rein that in and be a _better omega_ if she wants to bag herself an alpha. …She eventually chases the close-minded fucker off, and actually gets a nice _“you tell him!”_ of solidarity from one of the friends she’s made while she’s been making her rounds, but unfortunately the entire ordeal seems to have scared off the beta she’d been talking to, and a couple of the others nearby seem suddenly a bit more wary of her than before.

And then _another_ alpha around her age approaches, this one _far_ nicer than the last, but Darcy’s got those wonky instincts of hers, and when he tries to be all _soothing_ and _comforting,_ she can’t help but shiver in discomfort, and she all but leaps away from him when he tells her he’ll happily step in if anyone else tries to give her any trouble. The kid is actually being pretty decent, trying to make sure she’s okay after that whole loud confrontation, not even directly hitting on her but just genuinely seeming like he wants to make sure she knows other people in the bar are there if she needs help… but she can’t help it! The objectively nice gesture feels smothering and makes her skin crawl, takes her already-high frustration level and spikes it up to about an eleven.

And _the bastard is laughing_! (Not the kid who was trying to comfort her, but Half Smile Guy over at the other end of the bar.) He’s actually _laughing_ at her misfortune now! Darcy can’t help but scowl, shoot a dark glower his way, but he’s already turned his head by the time she manages to channel her embarrassment into outrage. He’s chuckling along with those friends of his, taking a deep swig of his beer and completely missing out on Darcy’s Very Scary Glare™. She aims it at the back of his head anyway, feels a little bit better even if she knows it doesn’t accomplish a thing.

After that, she tries to go back to her search, but within another couple of minutes, she’s finished off the rest of her drink and just _really_ needs to get away from the formerly-smothering-and-now-overly-apologetic young alpha who is driving her up an absolute _wall_. She excuses herself and heads over toward the bar, honing in on the only real opening that lets her get right up to the counter. Said opening is unfortunately just to the side of Half Smile Guy, but she makes a point of setting down her empty glass and staring straight ahead, does her best to ignore him while she waits for the bartender to get a free second.

Or, at least, she _tries_ to ignore him, but then he peers over at her, and she can’t help but take the opportunity to vent her frustration. “You know, you don’t have to be such an asshole,” she tells him, finally hazarding a glance in his direction. She tries to summon her Very Scary Glare™ once again, but at this point she’s more _drained and disappointed_ than truly _angry_.

His eyebrows skyrocket. “Have I offended you, Sweetheart?” he asks, and – _oh yeah!_ – her earlier guess that he is a total womanizer is clearly _spot on_.

She rolls her eyes, doesn’t think she should need to point out the obvious. Still, she turns her head toward him again, looks him in the eye while she chastises, “You think I didn’t see you laughing at me?”

Understanding visibly dawns on him, but he’s quick to raise an objection. “Oh no, you’ve got it wrong!” he asserts, head giving a firm shake as he lifts both hands in front of him, palms out. “I wasn’t laughing at _you_ , Sweetheart. I was laughing at _the pups_. They don’t know how to handle an omega, and it’s fucking hilarious to watch – like an entertaining train wreck. _Them_ though,” he reiterates, “not _you_.”

And he seems to think that’s a perfectly acceptable answer, that he’s just cleared up a big misunderstanding and left everything right in the world, seems to think there’s nothing at all problematic about what he’s just said. She turns to him fully now, this time doesn’t have any trouble summoning enough irritation to glare at him. “And how exactly _does_ one ‘ _handle’_ an omega?”

His answer is immediate and matter-of-fact: “However she _wants_ to be handled.”

The response pulls her up short, makes her pause, reconsider her assessment of him and the entire conversation. She takes a moment to look him over again, takes in his confident, relaxed posture – a change of pace from the _showy_ , in-your-face arrogance she’d seen from other alphas tonight. And _damn_ , but he really _is_ attractive! He’s got that whole ruggedly-handsome look that men only ever seem to be able to pull off once they’re over thirty-five. She chews on her lip, tilts her head to the side just a bit as she gives into her curiosity.

“…How would _you_ handle _me_?” she wants to know, even though part of her still suspects his whole ‘ _pups don’t know how to handle an omega!_ ’ comment is probably nothing more than bullshit.

It’s his turn to angle his body towards her this time, his turn to give her the once-over. Nothing in his expression gives away what he thinks of what he sees, however. He just meets her gaze, narrows his eyes as if he’s debating something, then seems to come to a decision.

“Not by wasting your time, that’s for sure.” And for a second, that feels like a pretty clear brush-off, but then he’s leaning forward, propping a bent elbow up on the bar in front of her, and holding up his hand so that his wrist is only a foot or so away from her face. He nods to it, holds her gaze. “Yes or no?”

It’s a bold move, being so direct about letting her scent him when most people these days tend to be much more discrete about it, using an excuse to get in closer, waiting until you are sitting essentially elbow-to-elbow… but _bold_ doesn’t bother her. She inhales, blinks her eyes shut and takes a deeper breath when the scent of strong, healthy alpha slams into her. He smells _good_ , she realizes. _Better_ than good, really – she’s not sure when it was that she’d last felt so drawn to another’s scent.

“That’s a _yes_ ,” he answers for her, his calm but confident voice drawing her back to the present. She opens her eyes, watches as he brings his arm back to a more natural position. There’s heat in his gaze as he looks down at her now, but there’s hesitation, too, and she’s _still_ not sure what it is he’s thinking. “You’re young,” he finally says, tone matter of fact.

And it’s a challenge, Darcy thinks, because he seems to have tossed it out there to see what she’d do with it, but he also doesn’t seem particularly _bothered_ , not the way she’d expect if he really _was_ concerned about the age difference. No, there’s something else keeping him at bay, and she tilts her head back a fraction, eyeing him through slightly narrowed eyes as she tries to figure out what it is. “You saying you can’t keep up?”

A slow, predatory smile spreads over his lips.

It feels like a victory, like she’d just cracked a code or solved a riddle on the first guess. She finds her gaze drawn to those lips again, catches herself only a second later and forcibly drags her focus back up to his eyes.

He inclines his head toward her abandoned cup, asks her, “What’re you drinking?”

And it is _definitely_ a victory, she decides, because there isn’t a much clearer signal than _that_. “Dark ‘n’ Stormy,” she answers just as the bartender finally starts to make his way over to their end of the bar.

Half Smile Guy nods to her, then, to the bartender, he raises two fingers. “Waters, when you get a sec?” At her somewhat affronted expression, he offers a sly smile and a silkily rumbled explanation: “If we’re gonna do this, Sweetheart, you’re gonna be sober for it.”

She’s not entirely sure what it is about that line that does it for her – it could be his voice, his confidence, or just the objectively good idea itself – but whatever it is, she finds her earlier offense and irritation evaporating a bit. She doesn’t really _need_ a third drink, anyway.

The bartender slides the waters his way, and Mystery Man’s decent enough to leave the guy a few bucks as a tip on what would otherwise be free drinks. …Darcy’s got a job back at Culver as a waitress. She notices these things.

When she looks back up at him, the alpha tips his head to the side in silent instruction and leads the way, trusting her to follow. There’s a small part of her that wants to dig her heels in, wants to challenge his presumption that she’ll just tag along as he expects her to, but a larger part of her is too curious to do anything but play along.

Leaving her empty glass on the bar, she trails after him, follows as he makes his way over to a quieter table in the corner of the establishment. It’s a square table, one seat on each side, and he places the drinks down on one corner, lingers beside one of the chairs and _waits_ , all but telling her to choose the spot next to him instead of opposite him.

She eyes the chair in question, looks back up at his neutral but watchful expression, then tosses her phone down next to the drinks, pulls the chair back, and drops into the seat. This whole thing feels like a dance already, and she knows they’re only just getting started, but she _wants_ _to play._ He’s also given her the better view, she realizes as she takes a quick look around. Her back is to a corner, and she finds she has unobstructed sightlines to the bar’s entrance and to the exit out to the back patio, while _his_ back is to the crowd. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one clearly intended to provide her with a sense of security, and it brings a small smile to her lips.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he comments as he sits down next to her, chair angled so that he’s facing her around the corner of the table instead of actually facing the table itself. He extends an arm, nudges one of the waters toward her.

She takes the hint, hums out a noncommittal response as she raises the glass and takes a sip through the straw. His eyes track the motion, and the corners of her lips twitch up again. “You’re right,” she tells him as she sets the drink back down on the table. “You _didn’t_.”

There’s amusement in his gaze as he tilts back his head, expression matching hers for a moment. “ _Ahh_ , so that’s how it is, huh?”

And he doesn’t seem upset by it in the least, which is a relief – a good change of pace from the smothering clinginess of the past few alphas she’s spoken with. She confirms, “That’s how it is.”

With a hum, he shifts forward in his seat and brings his torso closer to her, and she thinks for a second he’s going to reach out for her, touch her, _do something!_ , but all he does is let his knee brush innocently against hers, as he drops an elbow down on the table, picks up the untouched water, and takes a sip. He watches her as he does, watches her still when he puts the glass back down and stays where he is. “Alright. Then I _won’t_ ask what it is that brings you to town.”

She narrows her eyes, inclines her head in silent challenge. “How d’ya know I’m not from around here?”

A shrug. “You don’t _act_ like you’re from around here.” And Darcy doesn’t know what that means, what she must _act like_ that gives her away, because she sort of thinks she’s spent enough time in and out of the capital area over the last few years to be pretty at ease in the city… but then he cracks a smile, lets on that he’s teasing her. “You very loudly told one of the pups that was bothering you that you’re only in town for the weekend,” he reveals after a moment. Then he leans back, lets his gaze sweep over her from head to toe, lets it linger an extra second or two on her curves. When he looks back up, he meets her eye with a devilish smile. “Well, that _or_ you lied to the kid. Don’t tell me which one it is.”

With a huff of amusement, she takes another sip of the water, takes a second to peek over his shoulder at the group of guys he’d seemingly forgotten entirely about. She replays their conversation in her mind, realizes he hadn’t so much as spared them a glance when he’d led her away from the bar. Her head cocks to the side, and she can’t help but wonder aloud, “Are your friends going to mind that you’ve abandoned them? I mean, it's kind of rude, not even saying goodbye."

He picks up on her teasing, quirks a corner of his mouth and offers a dry, unconcerned response: “I’ll apologize to them at work tomorrow.”

 _That_ gives her an idea, and she lets her curiosity continue to guide the conversation. “What is it you do?” It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, of course, but she wants to know if her first guess had been correct.

But he doesn’t answer her, instead lets out a low whistle and arranges his feature into an exaggerated wince. “That’s classified, I’m afraid.”

And she has to laugh, can’t really complain about the dodge when she’d been the one to set the tone of the evening with the whole _no names_ thing. “Alright, Mystery Man.” After considering him for another moment, she figures that she’s here for a reason, so might as get on with it. She fixes a coquettish smile on her lips, tosses out something like a dare: “You thinking about showing me how you plan on ‘ _handling me’_ anytime soon?”

A flash of wolfish intent, and all of the sudden he’s wrapping a foot around the leg of her chair, giving it just enough of a tug to pull her a few inches closer to him. His hand is on her knee, then, thumb rubbing back and forth once… _twice_ … And then before she knows it, he’s hooked that hand under her knee, lifted it and placed it back down so that his leg is under hers, her calf brushing against his and her knee now directly on top of his.

It’s not all that huge of a change, objectively, but it _feels_ dramatically different. Her heart jackrabbits in her chest as awareness flashes through her. He hasn’t crowded into her space or anything like that, just pulled her a few inches closer, moved her leg a touch to the side, but the new position feels _infinitely_ more intimate. He’s officially between her legs, now, with the way he’s got one of hers now tossed over his, and even though the change has only widened her stance just a _fraction_ … she feels suddenly more exposed, suddenly spread open before him. Heat flares within her as if she’s fully seated on his lap, as if she’s straddling him completely, and now she can’t shake that thought from her mind, can’t get _that_ mental image out of her head. That’s a thing she’s now tempted to try, a thing she now wants with newfound intensity, and it suddenly feels oddly difficult to _stay still_.

His palm rubs over her lower thigh again, just a couple of inches above her knee, and the touch is grounding, draws her attention to it. She takes a breath, realizes belatedly that her last one had caught in her throat and she’d been unintentionally holding her breath for a few seconds there, realizes _then_ that in her momentary zone-out, she’d been even _more_ unintentionally eyeing that lap of his she’d been wanting to crawl into. She feels herself blush, steals a glance back up at his face.

He’s watching her – he’s _always_ watching her – and she has no doubt he’s clocked every aspect of her reaction, just now. It makes her cheeks flush more than they already are – another thing he _definitely_ notices, if the way the corners of his mouth twitch up just hair is anything to go off.

There’s a hint of predatory satisfaction there in his eyes, as he holds her gaze and gives her knee a squeeze. When her breath catches again, trapped there as she is by his stare, he applies a steady but gentle pressure to her thigh, guides it another inch higher on his own. His lips twitch up even more.

“You wanna get out of here?” she asks before the thought’s even fully formed in her mind. The question takes her by surprise – the _breathy_ quality to her _voice_ takes her by surprise, too – but she finds she doesn’t regret the invitation once it’s out there. He’s barely even touched her – she hasn’t even _kissed_ him! – but there’s already fire in her veins and a throbbing ache in her core. It feels _right_. It _feels_ right and he _smells_ right and she hasn’t seen any red flags… It’s everything she’s been looking for for a _while_ now, and she is _ready_.

“Yeah?” he checks – and it’s a question, a request for confirmation as much as it’s an answer.

He wants her to be sure.

She _is_.

“Yeah,” she parrots, before shifting in her seat and starting to pull her leg back. He relaxes his hand immediately, gives her no resistance but doesn’t actually _move,_ lets his fingers stay where they are and brush over her retreating leg. She responds by deliberately sliding her calf against his.

He’s on his feet the same second she is, that hand of his slipping around her waist to tease over her lower back. She’s tempted for a moment to step into him and finally bring their lips together, to let him use that hand to anchor her against his body, but she has a feeling she won’t want to stop once they start, has a feeling that letting the anticipation simmer just a little bit longer will be far more satisfying.

“Phone,” he reminds her, tucking his chair in and giving her enough time to snatch up the cell that she’d set on the table and forgotten entirely about in her haste. Her cheeks heat up _again_ at the oversight, but she tucks the thing in a pocket, lets him lead her, hand still on her back, toward the exit.

“I’m about three blocks that way,” he informs her as they step out into the night air. A little tilt of his head off to the right indicates the direction he means.

She counters with an option of her own: “I’ve got a hotel room – it’s not much further than that.”

And maybe it’s her own nerves that are starting to get the best of her, but she’s paying attention to his reaction, so she _sees_ the change when it happens. It’s subtle, something she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been watching closely, but she sees it, sees him glance back at the door to the bar, give her another quick once-over. She sees him flash a rueful smile, let out a playful groan, shove his hands in his pockets and rock back on his heels like he’s just dragging his feet over the added distance… but she _also_ sees him take the opportunity to give a subtle sweep of the nearby streets.

There’s a cautious edge to his expression, to his whole body language all of the sudden, and at first, she’s not sure what triggered the shift. But then it clicks in her mind that he might be one of those naturally suspicious types, that maybe she’d been right with that original guess that something about him screamed current or former military or security or police or _something_. People like that were sometimes more security-conscious, right?

She figures women – and _especially_ omega women – have more to worry about when going home with random strangers, but she also figures it’s probably relevant to keep in mind that _she_ was the one who approached _him_ here, that _she_ was the one who initiated the let’s-take-this-somewhere-else conversation. Omegas were _rare_ , and this alpha she’d immediately noticed at the bar had given off some pretty clear _has definitely taken women home from bars countless times before_ vibes, sure, but it probably isn’t every day an unbonded omega just out of a heat tosses herself at an unknown alpha after _maybe_ ten minutes of talking.

Darcy refuses to feel ashamed about it – she’s waited _more_ _than long enough_ for these stars to fucking align, thank you very much, and besides, women and omegas were totally allowed to have casual sex if they wanted! – but she can recognize that she’s _maybe_ coming off strong enough to set off some _is-this-a-trap?_ alarm bells.

Was she being too easy to start and is she now suddenly acting too cagey?

She cringes at the very thought, doesn’t want to scare off the first man who’s ever felt _right_ , but _also_ doesn’t want to take unnecessary safety risks, either. She tries to find a middle ground, figures that might _literally_ as well as _figuratively_ be the best option. “Alternative suggestion: we find a neutral territory. Your choice of any nearby hotel.”

Mystery Man cuts a glance back down at her, relaxes immediately. The way the tension drains from his shoulders seems a touch _deliberate_ , though, so Darcy’s not sure if her offer of a compromise actually helps to alleviate whatever concerns had been brewing in his mind, or if it simply puts him on notice that she can tell he has concerns.

Either way, he seems determined to set _her_ mind at ease, sends a small, soft smile her way. “Your place is fine, Sweetheart,” he says, and her doubt must show on her face, because he follows the statement up with a shallow nod of assurance. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

She gives him the truth: “I’m comfortable with either option.”

He eyes her for another second, hums in consideration, then brings his hands up to cup her head and tilt it back just a fraction. He moves into her, steps forward and pulls her against him, slants his mouth down over hers.

His kiss is confident but gentle, coaxing… _seductive_ , and she loses herself in the feeling, temporarily forgets to breathe, _definitely_ forgets where they are. The ambient noise of a nocturnal city fades into the background, she shuts her eyes to the lights and colors of the world around her, lets her senses focus entirely on him – on the press of his lips to hers, on the heat she feels radiating off of him, on the pleasant, intoxicating smell of _male_ and _alpha_ and _him_. It’s a heady feeling, and it’s distracting enough that she doesn’t immediately notice she’s grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, doesn’t notice his own hands have shifted, one kneading into her neck then tangling in her hair as the other slides down her back, pulls her closer, slips lower into the back pocket of her jeans.

Either seconds or hours pass, and he breaks their kiss, pulls back, keeps one hand cupped at the back of her neck and looks down at her through hooded eyes. There’s desire written all over his expression, but there’s triumph, too – _amusement_ , even. His mouth pulls back to one side in a crooked, satisfied smile, as he rubs a thumb over the corner of her jaw, lifts his other hand up between them, two fingers proudly extended and displaying a familiar looking key card between them. He turns his wrist and steals a glance down at the cursive writing along one side, looks back at her with an even wider smile.

“Room number?”

And he’s a smug little pickpocket who got lucky and drew her room key instead of her ID or credit card, but she doesn’t care. “Seven-oh-three.”

He pockets the card, tips her head up and leans down for another far-too-short kiss. The promise of more to come makes up for the brevity, though, and when he starts to lead her off toward the hotel, Darcy doesn’t need any encouragement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold the pitchforks, please, friends! This monster of a chapter had to be cut in half _somewhere,_ but the next update will pick up right where we left off with explicit content -- don't you worry!
> 
> ...If it wasn't obvious, Half Smile Guy/Mystery Man is, indeed, Brock Rumlow. Darcy just doesn't know his name.


	4. it feels like the first time [2/2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically 9,000 words of pure smut. because, you know: _Rumlow_.

They’re kissing by the time they make it back to the hotel room, were kissing in the hallway quite a bit, too, actually.

The walk over had given Darcy time to think, time to worry just a little about what was going to happen next. She has no regrets, has not even a _sliver_ of doubt about bringing this alpha back with her – she’s ready for this, hasn’t wanted anything _more_ than she wants this in a long, long time – but she doesn’t know what to expect, either. Or, more importantly, she doesn’t know what _is expected_ _of her_. When they make it back to the room, is she supposed to excuse herself to freshen up in the bathroom? Should she be brushing her teeth… or would that be weird? Does she need to offer him a drink? Should she be taking a moment to ‘slip into something more comfortable,’ or should she be letting him help her undress? What was the proper etiquette in these situations?

It turns out she needn’t have worried.

His lips are on hers as soon as the elevator door closes, drawing her out of her thoughts, coaxing her back to the present. By the time he has her pressed against the door, not seeming in any particular hurry to get the keycard out from wherever he’d stashed it, she’s already forgotten all about her little anxieties. _More of this_ is what’s going to happen next, and that’s all that matters.

He does eventually get the door open, guides her inside and must kick the door closed or something, because his hands are on her the whole time – are _everywhere_ on her, and if her brain was working right, she might wonder if he had more than just the two, because she’s certainly lost track. He’s cupping the back of her head, brushing down her side, guiding one of her arms up over his shoulder, pulling her into him, weaving his fingers through her hair, rubbing a circle on her hip with a thumb… He’s everywhere around her all at once, and she’s lost to the sensation.

She doesn’t fully notice that he’s slipped her phone out of her back pocket, has deposited it on top of the dresser where he’s also set aside his own phone, wallet, and keys. She only sees that when he finally breaks the kiss, rests his forehead against hers and gives himself a second to catch his breath, before slowly pulling away. He’s got one hand on her cheek then, the other on her waist, and they’re holding her to him just as much as they’re holding her back.

Mystery Man’s eyes meet hers, pupils blown wide but still sharp with focus. “Anything in particular you don’t like?” he asks.

Darcy can’t help but hesitate at the question, finds herself waiting for that familiar frustration to build within her, expects to feel the urge to crawl out of her skin, the way she always feels when an alpha starts asking what he can _do_ for her, how he can _help_ her with anything she might need…

The feeling doesn’t come.

Instead, she feels comfortable with him in a way that’s new to her, senses _patience_ rather than _indecision_ , hears a respectful and responsible inquiry, here, rather than a desperate bid for instruction or a coddling check-in. …Apparently that makes all the difference in the world to her and her overly sensitive instincts. With a tilt of her head to the side, she takes a second to ponder that little internal revelation, only to immediately realize that _this is not the time_ and refocus on actually trying to answer his very reasonable question.

She’s not sure if there _are_ things she doesn’t like, though, truth be told – or, more accurately, she’s not sure what those things might be, not sure whether she’ll dislike certain things she’s not yet had the opportunity to experience, and not sure how to _articulate_ the whole _gentle suffocation by overprotective alpha_ thing she _does_ know she dislikes. She’s not too worried about it, though, doesn’t stress, but trusts in her ability to advocate for herself in the moment. If something happens she truly has a problem with, she knows she’ll speak up, isn’t afraid to make her thoughts known.

But there is _one_ thing she can think of, one thing she recognizes might come up, and already knows would likely be a problem for her if it does. She figures it’s better to voice it now, fairer to him to lay it all out there on the line rather than waiting to see if it pops up unexpected later. And this is important, she knows, so she takes a breath, meets his gaze head-on and tells him: “Don’t try to _order_ me to do anything.”

She can resist an alpha’s order, of course – it’s not that she _can’t_ ; it’s just that she doesn’t want to _have to_. She doesn’t _like_ the feeling, doesn’t like the pressure that starts to bear down on her when an order is directed her way. Her instincts usually tell her to _rebel_ against an unfamiliar alpha’s orders, anyways, so it’s not like she has to fight the urge to bend to the will of random strangers on the regular… But _still_. She doesn’t want to feel like she _has to rebel_ almost as much as she doesn’t want to feel _compelled_.

And she’s not sure if that’s a normal thing for an omega to take issue with, if orders are _supposed_ to be a standard part of any alpha-omega coupling… so for a second she worries she’s made a mistake. She could’ve kept her mouth shut, after all, could’ve just played along and let them cross that bridge only if they came to it. She’d’ve resisted just fine – there wouldn’t have been any harm… She doesn’t want to _rebel_ and doesn’t want to _be_ _compelled_ , sure, but she wants _even less_ to lose this opportunity, to have this alpha who finally _feels right_ walk away because she’s just gone and violated some secret societal rule of etiquette.

But the man in front of her appears unfazed, simply nods his head once with purpose. “Of course.” The agreement comes without so much as a hint of judgment or disappointment, and the relief allows her to breathe again. “Does that extend to other… ah, _instructions_ ,” he attempts to clarify, seems to struggle at first to find the right word, “or is it just the alpha voice you don’t want to hear?” One of his hands has made its way to hers while she’s been lost in thought, and she feels his fingers now, playing absentmindedly with hers.

She has to blink back at him for a moment, is a bit thrown by just how _well_ that all went over, then finds herself just as quickly worried it might’ve gone _too_ well. “Just the _orders_!” she’s quick to stress, doesn’t want to have somehow scared him into treating her like she’s made of glass or something, the way some of those other alphas have treated her when they realize what she is. “ _Tell_ me to do anything you want! Just don’t try to _compel_ me.”

Sexy _Understanding_ Mystery Man nods again, runs his thumb up over her index finger then back down, lets the pad of one of his other fingers brush up against her palm. “Anything else you want me to avoid?”

She can’t think of a thing – can’t really focus on anything besides the feeling of his hand playing with hers – so she shakes her head in silent answer.

“Okay, then.” And that’s apparently all he has to say, because he gives her hand a little tug, pulls her back against him and dips his head down towards her. His lips trail over her jaw this time, slide lower, then, as he presses a thumb under her chin and tilts her head up and to the side.

She lets it fall back even further, gives him better access as she brings an encouraging hand to the back of his neck, holds him where she wants him. It feels _good_ , his lips and tongue and barely-there hint of teeth, and she finds her breath catching, her thoughts starting to scatter. “You’re not going to ask me what I _do_ like?” she asks before her mind _completely_ blanks, but even still, her voice ends up far huskier than anticipated.

He pulls back, looks down at her with laughing eyes and another of those stupid little half-smiles. “…You sure you _know_ what you like, Sweetheart?”

And that feels like a dig at her age or her inexperience – something she’s fairly sure he’s picked up on, something she’s _more than a little bit_ sensitive about. Indignation sparks within her at his presumption, and she straightens up, shakes his hands off of her and shoves against his chest. He doesn’t even attempt to block her, doesn’t try to dodge or knock her hands away, doesn’t so much as budge even when she puts her weight into it. He just stands there with a brow arched in silent challenge – and _damn_ if that doesn’t make her even _more_ frustrated she can’t move him! …She reins herself in before she makes more of a fool of herself, though, resists the urge to shove him with _all_ of her strength.

Setting her hands on her hips, Darcy huffs up at the alpha before her, goes to give him a piece of her mind, but he strikes before she can get a word out. Her brain belatedly registers a pressure behind one leg and against the front of her opposite shoulder, but, for a moment, all she knows is that one second, she’s glaring up at an immovable statute of a man, and the next, he’s got her on her back on the bed, his legs somehow between hers and his body covering hers.

She writhes instinctively, finds her wrists pinned on either side of her head. Irritation blurs into anticipation, and she finds her lips parting for a very different reason all of the sudden, feels her chest clench around her racing heart. She stills, waits to see what it is he’ll do next, but he… _does nothing_.

He just hovers there over her pinned body, watches her with those all-too-observant eyes of his, a pleased rumble slipping out of him as his mouth twists back into the beginnings of a self-satisfied smirk. “Well _there’s_ one thing you like,” he declares in a low drawl, dragging his gaze down to her still-parted lips before looking back up into her eyes. He drops his head then – _he_ _finally moves!_ – and brings his mouth to hers.

His kiss this time is rough, demanding, _branding_ – and it’s also altogether too short. The way his fingers dig into her wrists when she lifts her head to chase after him, the easy way he keeps her pinned to the mattress beneath him… it _almost_ makes up for the brevity. The promise lurking in his darkened gaze comes even closer.

Still, she feels the loss when he flexes the grip on her wrists only to release her, when he pulls up and sits back on his heels. He keeps his hands on her, though, knocks her shoes from her feet and lets them drop to the floor without a second thought, then runs his hands down and then back up the outsides of her thighs, hooks them behind her knees only to tug her just a little bit closer.

“Let me figure out all the different things that get you going, Sweetheart,” he entreats, picking up right where they’d left off in their earlier conversation. “It’s more fun that way.”

And she can’t argue with that – has a hard time forming _any_ coherent thought when his palms keep massaging her legs in that almost absentminded way of his, when she’s once again _incredibly_ aware of the fact that it would take next to no effort for her to sit up, seat herself fully in his lap... – so she simply nods, tries to figure out if there’s anything more they need to discuss. She realizes with a start exactly how one-sided the conversation has been so far, feels a flash of embarrassment at her selfishness.

Propping herself up on her elbows, but leaving her legs where they are, parted over his knees, calves tucked beside his hips, she looks up at him. “Wait, what about you? What do _you_ like?” she inquires, recognizing that not only is that the _polite_ thing to ask, but it’s also a _pretty damn helpful_ thing to figure out. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, here, after all – not _really_ – so any tips or insights would be incredibly helpful.

He doesn’t give her any, though, just grins down at her with an absolutely _filthy_ smile, tells her, incredibly _un_ helpfully, but in a _downright_ _sinful_ voice, “I like some fucked up, weird shit.”

He leans back over her, and then, with all the slow, powerful grace of crouching lion, he drops an elbow just outside of hers, uses his other hand to hike one of her legs higher around his waist. His body pressed to hers, he grinds their hips together and brushes his chest against hers, then he recaptures her lips, burns another searing kiss to her mouth, and pulls back with hooded but open eyes and a dangerously roguish smile.

“You _will_ tell me if you don’t like something, if anything I do makes you uncomfortable.”

It’s not phrased as a question – it’s presented, instead, as a clearly stated, non-negotiable expectation – but she nods in confirmation anyways, or does the best approximation of a nod she can manage when their faces are as close together as they are, when they’re sharing the same air, the same breath… It takes her a second to find _hers_ , but she wants to match the energy she senses in him, wants to be an active participant in this, not just a passive outlet for him. So she tilts her head forward, brings her teeth to his chin for a second, pulls back with a smile of her own. “Oh, I’ll make it known if I’m anything if I’m anything short of satisfied, don’t you worry.”

The thinly veiled taunt draws a growl out of him, has him bringing his weight down on her until she’s forced back from her elbows, until she’s pinned beneath him once again. But she’s got her arms free this time around, and she’s ready to use them.

One of her hands finds his waist, helps give her some additional leverage when he tugs behind her knee again, brings their hips somehow even closer than before. And she can _feel_ him there, can feel the hard bulge that grinds against her, can feel the answering throb of her own heartbeat between her legs. She brings her other hand up to his head, cards her fingers through his hair until she reaches the longer locks at the top, can grab a fistful. He hums when she gives an experimental yank, catches her jaw with the hand of the arm he’s propping himself up with. His fingers, there, are rougher than hers – not painful, but assertive, _controlling_.

Mystery Man forces her head up, exposes her throat and brings his mouth down upon it, teeth and lips meeting sensitive flesh in a flurry that steals the breath from her lungs. She tightens her grip on his hair, rakes the nails of her other hand up under his shirt and over his back, bucks up into him, and earns herself a growl of approval for her efforts. She tries to turn her head, wants to recapture his lips with hers, but the grip on her jaw tightens, refuses to give up even an inch.

He takes his time, nips and sucks his way down to her collarbone, focuses on more than one area long enough that she’s certain he’ll be leaving several obvious marks. The instinctual part of her doesn’t mind one bit, and it’s _that_ part of her that’s in control right now. Still, she makes a noise of frustration, yanks back on his hair, tries to drag his head back up to her, then thrashes for a second in irritation when her attempt gets her absolutely nowhere.

There’s another rumble from the alpha’s chest – this time a low chuckle – before he finally lifts his head just a fraction, deals a particularly harsh nip to her throat as he does, then turns her face back toward him. He dips down, angling his mouth toward hers again – _finally_! – only to pull up just shy of kissing her. His lips twist up into a smirk at the frustration that must be obvious in her glare.

“That’s not _really_ all it’s gonna take to make you lose your mind, is it?” he goads. “C’mon, Sweetheart, I think you can take a lot more than _that_ before you break.”

And that’s the type of challenge that both offends and excites her, one she instinctively wants to tackle head-on, wants to use the opportunity to prove she can handle even _more_ than he expects. But Darcy’s waited _years_ for this, can feel the intense _want_ within her like a drawn out rubber band, stretched thin and ready to snap at any moment.

She _wants_ to show him she can handle whatever he throws her way. She _knows_ , however, that she _can’t_ , not right now.

“ _Later_.”

It’s a desperate counterproposal, more _plea_ than _suggestion_ , and he seems to hear that, angles his head as he squints down at her in a moment of quiet, careful deliberation. “ _Later_?” he parrots, tone somewhere between teasing and speculative. “That a promise? You gonna let me have my fun _after,_ if I hurry this up for you?” The hand he’s got on her jaw shifts, relaxes just enough for him to be able to run his thumb over her bottom lip, his gaze trailing the motion before he glances back up at her through thick lashes. “Hmn?”

A jolt has her heart clenching, pleasant tingling sensations radiating outwards, and Darcy’s temporarily certain her brain has short-circuited. She’s so focused on the rough caress of his thumb, and then on his downright _sinful_ voice, and then on all the millions of possibilities he might be referring to when he talks about wanting to have _fun_ … She temporarily forgets she’s been asked a question. The quirk of his brow reminds her, has her heart rate spiking again when she realizes failing to respond might accidentally send the wrong message.

“Yes!” she rushes to answer, leaves her lips parted when his thumb takes another teasing swipe, a little more pressure behind the motion this time. She tries to squirm, finds her body still trapped beneath his, so grabs at his side and shoulder, tries to urge him into moving. “ _Please_!”

And there’s a wicked grin on his face, now, something like mischief or excitement or maybe just laughter dancing in his eyes as he looks down at her. “ _Please_?” There’s a rough chuckle, then: “Oh, _Sweet Girl_ …” he croons, drags that bottom lip of hers down with the pad of his thumb, then releases. “Do you _need_ me?”

And she actually sort of _does_ , but she also thinks she’s been more than accommodating enough. Unable to keep a better rein on her frustration, she lets her temper flare, levels him with a dark glower and demands in no uncertain terms, “Shut up and fuck me.”

With a grin and a rumble of approval, Mystery Man finally slants his head back down, swallows her in another bruising kiss. His fingers tighten around her jaw, pull her even _more_ into him, but then release her entirely. He keeps her mouth and mind otherwise occupied as he slides a knee between her legs and gropes down her body, trails hands over her sides and brushes a thumb over her breast. He bites off the moan he draws from her, tugs on her hips and helps guide her to grind against his thigh.

“Fuck.” It’s the only semi-coherent thought she can form, and it’s still a breathless whisper, slipping out of her the second he shifts his attention to her neck, bites down lightly on a spot that’s just a few inches above where a mating mark would go. It’s ever so slightly _off_ – like the moment of anticipation during a deep tissue massage, just a _second_ before the muscle releases – but it feels _right, right, right_ all the same.

She tips her head back even more, is rewarded with another rumble of approval and a kiss to spot just a few inches lower. And then he’s rolling with her, wrapping a hand around her waist and bringing her with him until he’s on his back and she’s straddling him. He wastes no time relieving her of her shirt and then her bra, sits up with her so he can trail open-mouthed kisses over her chest, catches one pebbled nipple between his teeth while a hand paws at the other breast.

He has her flipped back beneath him only a moment later, his own shirt chasing hers over the side of the bed, and then Darcy is unfairly robbed of the sight of impeccable muscles as his lips capture hers and she’s helpless to do anything but blink her eyes shut and try to match his pace. She palms at a pec, drags her other hand up a bicep and over the newly exposed skin of his shoulders, parts her lips for him and arches up as he slips an arm under her in order to tug her up against him.

She loses track of their limbs again, is overwhelmed by the muscles beneath her hands, by the stubble that rubs over her face, cheek, then neck, as he trails open-mouthed kisses down her body. She loses herself in the feel of him, in the _smell_ of him, and when he tries to draw back, she chases after him. It takes a groan and another searing kiss before he manages to pull up, slips his arm out from under her.

“Help me out, here, Sweetheart,” he cajoles, sounding slightly out of breath as he taps a hand against her still jean-clad hip. He drops down beside her, gives her enough space to maneuver, but keeps his torso draped half over her, chest and arm impossibly warm against her bare skin as he reattaches himself to one of her breasts. Another moment where she loses herself in the sensation, delights at the stubble tickling her skin, and then he’s tapping at her hip again, reminding her she has a job to do.

 _Oh_. Fuck. _Right_!

She doesn’t need to be told a _third_ time, hasn’t ever been so eager to strip before in her life. She snakes an arm between them, finds it easier than expected when he shifts up out of her way even as he sucks a nipple into his – _holy shit_ : _impossibly warm!_ – mouth.

Darcy fumbles with the buckle but gets it undone, then lifts and wiggles the denim down over her hips. Her panties slip down with the jeans, and she couldn’t care less, doesn’t even spare a single thought for the only matching set she owns that never even had a chance to be appreciated. She flops back down, gives a few creative little kicks to send the things flying away from the bed, and refocuses on him, tries to grab him and tug him back up.

He moves over her again, but he goes the _wrong_ way as he kisses his way down her body, those muscles of his slipping right out of her grip, even when she tries to dig in with her nails.

Crying out in protest, she starts to sit up, reaches for him again, because while she _appreciates_ the sentiment – _truly!_ a part of her brain is _definitely_ cataloguing his generosity and reminding herself she needs to be _very grateful_ later! – she also _does not want to wait another second_. “Please,” she tries, since that seemed to work well enough for her last time. “I’m ready, I promise! You don’t need to—!“

A splayed palm slaps into her, just where her ribcage ends, and she’s shoved back down against the bed before she can finish the thought. Hazel eyes flick up at her as he holds her in place with ease, expression full of smug amusement when she tests his grip and finds herself quite effectively pinned by just his one hand.

“ _Patience,_ Woman!” he admonishes, huffs out an exasperated breath. “I’m _hurrying_ for you. Just give me a second…” And it certainly doesn’t seem like he’s _hurrying_ when he buries his head between her legs, gives no warning before he licks a stripe up her center in a move that has her legs spasming and her back arching – at least, as much as is possible with the restraining hand he’s still got on her…

And she’s clutching at his hair, trying to drag him back up and keep him exactly where he is all at the same time, because she wants him to stop teasing her and just _get on with it already_ , but she also wants him to keep doing whatever it was he just did. She wants to kiss him, wants to feel him roll with her, pin her down again. She wants to bury her nose in his neck, wants to feel his stubble on her cheek, wants to dig her nails into his shoulders as he moves inside her. Darcy wants and she wants and _she_ _wants_.

For a moment, she forgets what she wants most of all, forgets how to do anything but lay back and gasp as he continues his ministrations, keeps her pinned with one hand while the fingers of the other slip inside her. He coaxes a high-pitched whine out of her before a finger curves _just so_ , and suddenly she’s clawing at his head again, tugging and pushing all at once.

Mystery Man lets her pull him up, deals a nip to the inside of her thigh along the way, but eventually turns his face to her, somewhat petulant expression in place. One real look at her has the edges softening of his glower a bit, even as his lips twist back into a teasing smile. “You’re no fun, Princess,” he tells her, no real malice behind the complaint despite the mocking endearment. He’s still got that little half-smile on as he looks up at her through thick lashes and drops a kiss to her hip, keeps their gazes locked as he curls his fingers again and brings the pad of his thumb to brush over where his tongue had just been.

And it’s far too small a movement to have as profound an effect as it does, but somehow it steals the breath from her again, has her squirming and fighting to keep her eyes open and focused on him. “Later,” she promises, bobbing her head in a frantic nod. She repeats her earlier plea, tries to infuse her voice with even some small fragment of the desperation she feels bubbling up within her: “ _Please_.”

“Okay, Sweetheart. _Okay_.” She watches as he drops one more kiss just below her navel, and then he’s lifting himself and climbing back up her, grabbing her by the waist and tugging her to meet him halfway. His mouth clashes against hers, and when he grinds himself against her, she realizes with a jolt of surprise that he’s just as bare as she is, though she’s got no recollection whatsoever of when that could’ve happened.

She hears him tearing open a wrapper, breaks the kiss to watch with rapt attention as he rolls the condom on. And – _Jesus Christ!_ – when did he even get that _out_? Exactly how distracted _is_ she right now? Was that one he had brought with him or had he found it in her nightstand drawer while she’d just clearly blacked out and lost time, or…?

She finds she doesn’t care, not once he’s got it on and is grabbing at her again, positioning her under him then using one hand to line himself up while the thumb of the other rubs quick, practiced circles over her clit.

“ _Fuck_!” she finds herself cursing again she gives up on watching, throws her head back and gives in to the feeling.

“I’ve got you,” he assures her with his forehead to her shoulder. “C’mere, I’ve got you.”

And then he’s easing into her, a single, steady, _deep_ stroke that messes up the rhythm of his little circles. But she doesn’t care, doesn’t _need_ the additional stimulation, because while the fit _is_ a stretch, it’s one she welcomes, a deeply satisfying twinge of pain she absolutely _relishes_. It’s not like she hasn’t used her fair share of toys, after all, isn’t _completely_ unprepared.

She makes a noise – might even say something nonsensical, she doesn’t know. She isn’t thinking at all. All she knows is that she needs him to _move_ , needs him to shed whatever concern for her comfort he might be harboring. She clutches at him, tugs his arm from between them, whines, digs into his side with a knee.

He apparently gets the memo and needs no further encouragement, because one second she’s pulling on his arm and the next he’s got both of hers pinned down again, wrists above her head. He slams into her, turns his face into her neck and yanks one of her legs higher on his waist. The pace he falls into is a quick one, one that has her breasts bouncing against his chest and her breaths coming in sharp, rapid bursts of succession. He tugs on her hip, lifts her enough to get the angle _just so_ —

And _oh, fuck!_ She cries out again, arches her back and tries to match his movements.

“Yeah?” Mystery Man’s voice is gruff in her ear as he checks with her, question clear enough to not need additional words.

Darcy nods, doesn’t trust her voice. _Yeah. Definitely yeah._

He keeps going, must release her wrists at some point, because he’s squeezing a breast, tangling a hand in her hair, pinching her jaw between two fingers and forcing her head back so he can mouth at her throat some more. She can feel every touch, every bite, every thrust of his hips and internal stroke as he pulls back. It’s an almost overwhelming barrage of sensations, and she has to close her eyes, draws his face back to hers so she can kiss him again.

He swallows her cries eagerly, tangles his tongue with hers, and then lets her turn away when it gets to be too much, goes back to mouthing down her neck while she pinches her eyes closed, furrows her brow, focuses, _focuses_ …

There’s pressure mounting within her, waves slamming against the shore, desperate to break free, held back by a coiled spring that’s twisted tighter, and tighter, and tighter...

She focuses on the satisfyingly _full_ sensation, on the drag she feels inside her, the way his movements have him brushing against her…

The dam breaks. Her back arches. Her lips part on a silent cry.

There’s an answering groan from above her, a low curse, and then there are two rough hands on her hips, anchoring her to him as he fucks her through it, drives into her with abandon as he chases his own release.

“Fuck. _Fuck_!” And there’s a frustrated edge to his voice as he comes to a jarring halt, takes a shaky breath and rocks against her almost thoughtlessly. He seems to be shaking with the effort of holding still – or as close to still as possible – as he taps against her cheek, clearly tries to get her attention back on him.

She opens her eyes, frowns at him and makes a noise of protest, tries to spur him back into action with a heel to the back of the thigh. She’s come down from her high already, but it’s too abrupt of an end, the sudden lack of motion leaving her feeling strangely restless.

“I know, I know,” he commiserates, presses an apologetic kiss to her temple as he cups her cheek with a palm and guides her to look at him. He swallows with difficulty, rocks against her again. “But you gotta tell me if I can knot you. I gotta know before…”

He trails off with a groan as she lifts her hips, tries to urge him back into motion.

The action earns her a punishing bite to her bottom lip, and then he’s grabbing at her waist, holding her still as he glares down at her. “ _Focus_ ,” Mystery Man demands as he catches her jaw and jerks her face back towards him. “ _Yes or no_ , Sweetheart? I want you more than once tonight, but it’s your call how we do this. Do you want my knot, or do you want me to finish without it? Because I’ll take any and everything you’ll let me.”

And Darcy can’t for the life of her figure out why he’s even bothering to ask, didn’t even really think _without_ was an option. …Wasn’t that the major reason alphas _liked_ omegas in the first place? Wasn’t that the whole _point_?

“You’re killing me here,” he growls out, digs his fingers into her jaw a little bit more when she doesn’t immediately answer him. “ _Yes or no_?”

With a blink, she rushes to give him the answer she would’ve thought obvious: “Yes. Oh, God, _please_ , _yes_!”

The growl the alpha releases is different this time – a pleased rumble, a half-groaned unleashing of tension as he lurches forward, snaps his hips against hers. It’s rough, another just as abrupt transition, but she holds on, clings to him as he drives into her. There’s a sloppy kiss that feels like gratitude pressed to her cheek, and then his forehead is on the mattress above her shoulder, neck craning as he lets out another groan, takes hold of her opposite shoulder and then her hip and forces himself deeper, impossibly deeper in her.

It’s a sudden, incredibly intense sensation, and she feels the pressure near her entrance, feels the burn of a new stretch, thinks for a second that that’s going to be it, but then the pressure keeps growing and he’s still moving and _holy fucking shit_ , are they actually sure this is going to _work_?

She claws at him, makes some kind of high-pitched noise, tries to _focus_ again but isn’t sure what to focus _on_. It feels impossibly good and almost painful all at once, somehow so much _more_ than any of the knotting toys she’s ever used in the past. She doesn’t know if she should be trying to focus on the pleasure, trying to focus on something else with the hopes that it’ll somehow make everything else seem less intense, trying something else entirely…

She feels him jerk to a halt, buried deeper than she would’ve thought possible within her. Some distant part of her mind registers that he’s all but collapsed atop her, but the feel of his weight sinking down on her is nothing to the acute burning within her. It goes beyond _stretch_ , beyond _pleasure_ , beyond anything she’s ever felt before.

She tries to squirm away, not sure she can handle the onslaught of sensation, but he keeps her anchored to him with a bruising grip on her hip.

“ _Relax, relax, relax_ ,” he’s repeating into her ear on a breathless chant, voice somehow rough and gentle all at the same time. She tries to listen to him, tries to _relax_ , but she feels like a teakettle, high-pitched whine and all as her body whistles, pressure coming to a boil.

And then she erupts.

The tension within her shatters, huge waves of pleasure radiating through her entire body, tingling ripples running through her from head to toe, leaving nothing but bliss and satisfaction in their wake.

She finds it somehow harder to breathe, blissed out and motionless as they are, but she manages – must, if she can still feel her body, can feel him locked to her.

There’s a moment when she comes down from the high, where she’s certain it’ll be awkward, being tied to a complete stranger for who-knows-how-long, but instead of just lying there under him stupidly, left to question her life decisions, she finds herself pulled with him as he rolls them over, flops onto his back and settles her across his chest. He wraps an arm around her lower back, uses a hand to hike one of her legs up across his opposite hip.

It’s… _comfortable_.

She finds herself relaxing into him, letting out a deep exhale, blinking her eyes shut. And then she notices it, hears the quiet rumbling beneath her ear, _feels_ the vibrations against her chest, chasing away any remaining tension from her body, causing any lingering concerns to evaporate into thin air.

He’s _purring_ , a part of her realizes.

_Right._

Because that’s a thing alphas can do.

…She _knows_ this, has learned this in school and heard about this from friends and television shows.

But no one told her how _nice_ it would be, how it would resonate deep within her, in her bones or her soul or somewhere so primal that even the satisfaction of hearing your favorite song on the radio can’t reach.

She nuzzles her face into his pec, inhales his still-very-appealing scent, and settles in to enjoy the gentle vibration of a contented alpha.

“That feels nice,” she sighs out after a moment, thinks she needs to verbally acknowledge it so that he’ll hopefully keep it up as long as he can. She’s not sure how it works, exactly, doesn’t know if it’s a super intentional thing he has to focus on, or a more instinctive thing that just slips out when he’s particularly pleased, but, either way, she wants him to know it’s appreciated.

There’s a little noise of amusement that blurs with the rhythmic rumbling, and the hand on her back flexes, squeezes her to him and then shifts so that his fingers can brush soothing, absent-minded patterns over her shoulder. “Good,” he tells her, then dryly adds: “It’s meant to persuade you to let me knot you again.”

She barks out a laugh at his uncensored honesty, hums along in pleasure when the purring intensifies in response. She doesn’t need to think to know she’d be down to give it another go. Blissfully, she tells him, “Bribery attempt successful.”

He makes another noise – this one more like the sound one makes when they’re debating whether or not to agree to something – then reveals: “You’ll be sore, you know. You’re not in heat.”

And _ohhh, yeah_ , if she wasn’t sure if he’d clocked her inexperience before, she’s _absolutely certain_ that he knows _now_. There’s no other reason for him to warn her off, to remind her of that annoying little twist of biology she might not otherwise be aware of: omegas are the only ones who can safely take an alpha’s knot, and it feels _good_ , certainly – she’s just experienced _that_ firsthand, and had obviously spent each and every one of her heats craving nothing more than to be fucked and knotted – but… _outside of a heat,_ the stretch is a big ask on even an omega’s body. Her muscles will be sore – hell, they’d probably be sore tomorrow even if he _hadn’t_ knotted her – but it’ll certainly be worse if they do it more than once in the same night.

She should probably be embarrassed that she’s apparently been obvious enough in her inexperience for him to recognize it, but as she lays there, sated and comfortable against the warm, incredibly cut chest of this handsome alpha who _smells nice_ and who _is purring_ and who _took good care of her_ , she can’t bring herself to feel embarrassed, can’t bring herself to care about any future soreness. She gives his shoulder an affectionate pat, snuggles closer and takes another breath of his masculine scent. “Well, then I guess you’ll just have to make it worth my while.”

“Oh- _ho_!” He runs his hand down her back again, brings it up and cups the back of her neck, applies some pressure there in a mock threat. He feigns offense, cranes his neck and demands to know: “You think I won’t make it worth it for you?”

But she only hums again in approval, tucks her head forward and presses back against his hand, arches her back. The motion has her accidentally wiggling a bit more than she intends, and she pays for it a second later when she feels the sudden prickle of discomfort radiating from where their bodies are still joined. She collapses back against him as he chuckles, gives her neck another quick squeeze then releases, strokes down her spine and secures her to him with an arm around her waist. He’s still got his other hand on her calf, keeping her draped across him.

“Easy there, Minx! Why don’t you settle down and stay put for a bit, yeah?” His tone is somewhere between a playful scold and dry, mocking tease – because _what else is she going to do_ , after all? – but it shifts, becomes silkier and all but drips with sin when he tacks on a promise: “ _Then_ we’ll play. For _real_ , this time. None of that ‘ _I just can’t wait any longer!’_ bullshit.” 

The anticipation of what exactly _that_ means sends a jolt of arousal through her, and she unintentionally clenches around him, draws a gravelly groan from his lips. It’s the _good_ kind of groan, though – there’s no wince or sound of _actual_ pain – so she doesn’t feel bad, doesn’t apologize, even when he continues with his coaxing chastisement:

“The more you do that, the longer it’ll take, you know. Just _relax_ , would you?”

She adopts an air of self-sacrifice, sighs loudly. “Then do the purring thing again, at least.” She’s not sure when in their conversation he’d stopped, but she finds herself suddenly missing it.

“ _Brat_ ,” he scolds, but she hears the quiet huff of air, hears the smile in his voice. He fulfills her request immediately, that gentle vibration starting right back up again and draining away any tension, any urge to do anything other than just lie there and bask in the afterglow.

They stay like that for what could be hours or could be seconds, so lost to time is Darcy. She just rests atop him, content to not move a muscle. Touch seems to be an important thing for Mystery Man, though, and as time passes, his hands shift from one spot to another and then back again. The one he’s got behind her knee sweeps down, fingers brushing back and forth over her calf, then later climbs higher, rests on the outside of her hip, where his thumb can rub small circles over the spot he’d so roughly gripped earlier in the night. His other hand stays around her waist for a little while, but eventually it, too, moves, his forearm running the length of her back before his fingers settle against the back of her head.

It’s maybe ten or so minutes later when Darcy finally feels thoughts pressing in on her previously blissfully quiet mind. Her first reaction is to try and mentally _shoo_ them away like a meditation exercise, but they’re persistent little thoughts, emboldened by how very _satisfied_ she finally is, how… utterly _uninhibited_ she feels with this complete stranger. She lets out a contented sigh, tries to find her voice. “Can I ask you a question?”

His voice has an almost groggy aspect to it as he grouses out a “ _No.”_ in response, but she reads the sarcasm, registers no actual irritation radiating off of him. His hand’s still playing in her hair, fingers dragging against her scalp in what Darcy From Yesterday, who hadn’t yet actually felt an alpha’s purr, probably would’ve declared to be the most relaxing sensation on earth.

She tilts her head, props her chin on his chest, buffered by one of her hands, and looks at him. His eyes are closed, but she knows he’s listening, knows she’s got his attention. It takes her a minute to figure out how to best phrase her question, and she’s grateful when he gives her all the time she needs. “…Why is it so hard to find alphas like you? Who don’t make me want to run away screaming?”

The purring stops, and he blinks open his eyes, cranes his neck a bit and looks down at her with an expression of disbelief. “Now?” he complains, and it might be closer to irritation this time, but she sees the twist of his lips, knows he doesn’t _really_ mind her imprudence. “You’re asking me that _now_? With my knot still in you?”

She smiles back sweetly, confirms – quite happily: – “I _am_.”

Her answer earns her a loud groan as he drops his head back to the pillow, blinks his eyes closed again. The hand on her head transitions from a gentle massage with his fingertips to a more aggressive palming, and he snags some of her hair between his fingers each time he pulls back – something she’s sure is _completely intentional_ – but she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of responding, just takes a deep breath, tries to control her exhales.

“I want you to know that it goes against _all_ of my instincts to tell you this, _especially right now_ ,” he states, talks it up like he wants credit for doing her some big favor, like he’s not fighting a twitch at the corner of his mouth, “but I’m not the _only_ alpha who can give you what you’re looking for. You just want someone who’s gonna _push_ you, not someone who’s gonna _shelter_ you, lock you away and protect you from the world.”

And that sounds spot on to her, puts words to the feelings she’s been fighting for _years_ , but it also goes against everything she’s picked up from the movies and romance novels, everything they talked about back in high school health classes. She voices her uncertainty, even though his answer feels _right_ : “I thought that’s what all alphas wanted.”

“ _Nah,_ ” he immediately contradicts, rolls his head to the side and back in emphasis. “ _Protect_ means something different to each of us. It means something different to each of _you_ , too. You just gotta find the alphas you mesh with, that’s all.”

She snorts, is already grumbling under her breath about how _sure, that’s easy enough to say,_ when he chuckles, gives her leg an affectionate pat.

“They’re out there,” he assures her. A second later, though, he makes a noise of concession, has to admit: “The _pups_ don’t know what they’re doing, yet – I’ll give you that – but give ‘em a couple years. They learn. …Or they _don’t_ , but then: fuck ‘em.” He shares a conspiratorial smile, even with his head still back on the pillow and his eyes still comfortably closed.

She rolls her eyes, despite knowing he can’t see it.

It’s the thing he says next that robs her of the ability to breathe, that hits entirely too close to home: “There’s nothing wrong with you, Sweetheart.”

He says it with such quiet certainty, such _sincerity_ , that she has to blink in rapid succession, is suddenly grateful he’s still got his eyes closed and isn’t watching her expression. The man can apparently see _more than enough_ as it is, without even needing to look at her.

“You don’t know many other omegas, do you?” he deduces, phrases it like a question even though it’s pretty clear he’s not really _asking_. She shakes her head in answer anyway, realizes belatedly that he can’t actually _see_ it, but he must feel the motion, because he continues before she has a chance to repeat her answer aloud. “Someone, sometime told you that you’re supposed to act a certain way, that you’re supposed to _want_ a certain thing because of what you are… but that person’s _wrong_ , Sweetheart. That’s fucking _bullshit_. I’ve never met two omegas who wanted the exact same thing – I’ve never met two omegas who _needed_ the same thing. Most alphas recognize that, try to adjust accordingly. The ones that don’t, they’re either too green to have figured it out yet, or they’re not worth your time.”

She lets that soak in, appreciates the affirmation and the strong, surprisingly feminist Ted Talk she’s stumbled into, but she also knows that even if she internalizes his words, it won’t magically solve all of her problems. It’s taken her _twenty-one_ _years_ to find an alpha that feels right! ‘ _Be patient and you’ll find the right alphas’_ isn’t exactly the advice she wants to hear.

And maybe he really _can_ read minds, because he picks up on her melancholy, manages to correctly pinpoint the direction of her thoughts. “It’s worse when you’re on edge, right? When you let yourself get too stressed or frustrated? Smaller things will bother you, and it’ll just spiral from there: you’ll get irritated, end up _more_ on edge, and then _even smaller_ things will set you off. Stressed omegas stress alphas out, inexperienced stressed alphas _panic_ , and, more often than not, a panicked alpha is going to smother you.”

It’s all so very logical when it’s broken down like that, and, now that she’s thinking about it, it doesn’t actually sound all that unique to alphas and omegas. She hums, goes to synthesize: “So, in summary…”

He cuts her off, fills in for her, bluntly: “You need to have more sex.”

His summation rips a full-bodied laugh out of her, has her shaking against his chest until she’s blinking back tears once again, this time for a very different reason.

And he’s craning his neck and looking down at her fondly when she finally gets herself under control, feels his hand smooth the hair back from her face. “Find an outlet,” he tells her then, replacing his earlier half-joke with a more serious answer. “ _Control_ your frustration. That’s on _you_ , too – not just on the alpha. You might not be able to control whether someone’s gonna mesh with you, but you _can_ control how much you let it bother you if they don’t.”

And that’s fair advice, she figures – a fair dose of uncomfortable reality after an otherwise comforting conversation – so she takes a breath, admits to him: “You might be right.”

“I _know_ I’m right.” His lips pull into a cocky smirk as he grabs her by the back of the neck, forces her head up and back enough for him to lean in and bring their mouths together for a quick, rough kiss. He pulls away, holds her head still at that awkward, almost-painful angle, and demands to know, “Now… are we done with _Story Time_?”

It’s another dig at either her age or her inexperience, and she glares in irritation, but she still can’t help but express her gratitude for his patience, knows he didn’t _have_ to give her any answers at all. She looks him in the eye, tries to convey her appreciation. “ _Thank you_.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he dismisses with an exasperated, self-sacrificing sigh. “You wanna thank me? Do me a favor and shut up for a minute.” There’s no heat to the words, no actual bite behind the bark, so Darcy chooses not to be offended.

That doesn’t stop her from rolling her eyes, opening her mouth to make a smart-assed retort… but before gets the chance to say _anything_ , before she even realizes what’s happened, she finds herself on her stomach, face pressed into one of the pillows. Her mind registers that his knot must’ve receded, that they’re no longer tied together, because she feels him crouching over her, feels one of his knees between hers, ankle hooked beneath hers as he sweeps his leg, forces hers further to the side.

The hand in her hair wrenches her head to the side, gives her space to breathe, but she can’t _see_ anything, not with the way half her face is still pinned against the pillow, the other half covered with errant hair. She tries to shake it off, quickly learns that she _absolutely should not_ attempt to move her head with the way he’s got her hair wrapped tight around his fist. She tries to reach for her face, then, finds one of her arms pinned beneath her, the other effectively pinned to her side, what with the way he’s got his spare arm bracketing her elbow, a good amount of weight holding it down. Her attempts to blow her bangs out of her eyes are similarly unsuccessful, but he takes pity on her, uses that free hand of his to brush some of it back from her face.

It means she can watch as he smirks down at her, presses a patronizing kiss to her bare shoulder, then clicks his tongue at her. “Asking me how to seduce other alphas when I’m still inside of you…”

And _yeah_ , okay… maybe it _hadn’t_ been the best time to ask the question she’d just asked, sure, but she still can’t help but immediately object: “I didn’t ask you _how to seduce_ an alpha!”

There’s a rumble of amusement behind her, and then he’s tugging her head back again, forcing her to choose between craning her neck uncomfortably and feeling like her hair is being ripped out. She settles on the uncomfortable twist, winces and goes to give him a piece of her mind, but finds the remark dying on her tongue when she sees that he’s peering down at her, expression unexpectedly and devilishly beguiling.

“…You wanna _learn_ how to?”

“I don’t know,” comes her dry retort, “I got _you_ here, didn’t I? I think I’ve got that part down.”

He flashes a grin, tilts his head to the side, allows: “ _Maybe_. But I think I’mma teach you anyways.” He moves the hand that’s not keeping her head pinned, then, gives her right hip two rough taps, hikes that knee of his higher and gives her little choice but to follow suit. “Now: _up_! Time to have some fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired in part by:  
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> [gifs belonging to the lovely [ramadiiiisme](https://ramadiiiisme.tumblr.com/post/188587756348/kingdom-s02e15-aka-the-best-fucking-scene-in-the) on Tumblr, taken, of course, from the TV show _Kingdom_.]  
> //side note: This is where feedback is particularly helpful, friends. If you've got a few minutes to spare and there are things you love or hate about the sex, here, you should definitely let me know! That'll help me when I sit down to write future steamy scenes!!


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